


Seven Minutes in Blue Pontiac Heaven

by Trapelo_Road475



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Arizona Coyotes, First Time, Kamloops Blazers, M/M, Phoenix Coyotes, long term relationships, love is blind or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 19:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10445778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trapelo_Road475/pseuds/Trapelo_Road475
Summary: Shane gives Tyson a birthday gift - one of those fancy coordinate bracelets that keep popping up on Tyson's facebook ads.  Where is it?  Tyson asks.Oh, Shane says, somewhere special.Somewhere special, alright.





	

For his birthday, Shane corners him, shyly (as Shane does - Doaner is the very worst at keeping surprises under cover, and he is pink as a Barbie fun-home right to his ears) and pushes a little box at him. Not the fancy kind of velvet box you give to your wife, just a box, a nice cardboard box embossed with a logo. 

Inside is a bracelet, leather cord, and a little tag on the front with a set of numbers. 

Coordinates.

Tyson lights up. He's seen these, they're - "Oh, those are those things I keep seeing ads for on Facebook! The - " he rubs the soft cord leather in his fingers, strokes the pewter plate, the embossed digits. " - what are these for, anyhow?"

Pink to the roots of his hair, his eyes glistening how they do when he gets delighted about something, dimples perfectly rooted in his cheeks. "Somewhere special," Shane says. He has a streak of mischief in him, like you wouldn't know from the low-water burble of his laugh or the earnest way he looks at every camera, every tape recorder, every set of eyes. Shane has never done or said anything that he does not mean, and Tyson does not exagerrate this fact one little bit.

Even back when they were still boys, and Shane gave him one stunning, perfect, serious look, as if he were about to say grace to all the saints, licked his lips and - 

Yeah. Even back then. 

Tyson feels his cheeks all burning. He thumbs the metal plate on the bracelet. Somewhere special, Shane says, watering eyes and mischief smile. All his sweetness, thrust without guile into one gifting moment. One box, one bracelet. 

Tyson puts the bracelet on. It takes some trying, he gets tangled, and Shane's hands move up around his wrist and forearm, brushing longer than is strictly necessary. The bracelet loops in place, and Tyson admires it. Black braided cord leather, and the pewter plate, it looks good. Gleams, here in the dull gaze of the arena fluorescents. Looks great, in fact. 

"You like it?"

Every year that Shane has ever given him anything (which is every single stupid year, even the very first one they knew each other) he always hitches a soft breath and says: you like it?

As if he wouldn't. 

Tyson bends up a little (Shane is not so much taller than him, but Tyson likes to pretend sometimes) and gives him a tender little kiss, more than a peck and less than the full mile he'd like to go right here right now, but it's game day, and the place is crawling with the pups (the boys, the kids, and what neither of them needs is Chych or Laws or Murphs bowling into the two of them and getting ideas, which is absolutely what a pack of horny little hockey pups would get) not to mention the rest of the staff. 

Tyson thinks that because he is an _old man_ now, he should have better sense than to want to rut Shane every time he sees him. That he should not want to put his hands on Shane's hips, kiss him here and there. Shane gives the best gifts, most imperative of all being Shane himself and his goofy little smile and his perfect dimples (that match the ones on his ass, if anyone asks, which no one does), and Tyson wishes he could give something back.

Not the horse lamp. The horse lamp was just the sort of thing that would stymie Shane and make him laugh at the same time. The horse lamp confuses and concerns the pups, and Shane's kids (his real kids, not the patchwork of adopted man-children who trail him everywhere) adore it, they dress it up in fancy blankets and hats, and that was a gift that Tyson meant, but it was not the sort of thing that meets the standards of Shane's eyes, his prairie-mustang eyes. Tyson would do anything for those eyes. 

Shane cups his jaw a little. Shane could probably make him have a seizure just by smiling at him. 

"Gotta go get ready," Shane says, low as prayers. "See you later." 

"Yeah." He is seventeen years old. Stupid meat-mouthed seventeen. _Yeah._

That ass, though.

The bracelet is pretty much hidden under his shift cuffs all night, and it's not til later - much later - in the car, in the parking lot, that he remembers that he still has no idea what the coordinates are. Squinting in the overhead light, he looks them up on his phone.

The coordinates point directly to what looks like a rest stop on highway 5, just outside Kamloops and somewhere along the Thompson river. Tyson stares at his phone, wondering what in the hell Shane means by that and if maybe he made some kind of mistake or just looked up Kamloops and that was it? Kamloops would be important. That would be an awful sweet thing, and Shane is just that sort of awful sweet fella. Always has been. 

Tyson feels warm and heavy in his chest, like a sackful of kittens. That's just the sort of thing Shane would do, with his shy-smiling eyes, it's somewhere important he says.

At around four in the morning, he wakes up from a raucous, heated little dream involving Shane's eyes and the birthday cake he probably should not have had when he got home from the game, and heads to pee. His head is still murky with frosting and the sense memory of Shane's smooth and salty skin, and god, Tyson can imagine the smell of him from a dead stop - every smell of him, from rancid morning breath to scrubbed out of a junior hockey locker room shower. That and his dimples. 

In the low bathroom light, the bracelet glints and he remembers it, all of a sudden. 

He remembers it _all of a sudden._

"Doaner you _got-damn-son-of-a-bitch!_ " And he doesn't know if he's exultant or furious, but he's laughing. Laughing in the mirror. Seventeen years old. Rest stop on Highway 5. The way Shane's eyes dew up and glisten when he's got something important on his mind, and how Shane Doan has never done or said anything he doesn't mean. 

Shane doesn't text, meaning he doesn't text back (except smileys or frowneys), but he gets texts just fine (this is how all the pups consult with him) and Tyson takes his phone in the dark living room and just flat texts at him: 

_Doaner I am gonna get you back so good._

Five minutes later, sighs, stares at the ceiling.

_Idiot._

He was not yet eighteen, Shane's first season, but the winter had set in and they were stir-crazy boys with a rare night off, and who was going to do homework? Colder than a witch's tit outside, deep black beyond the city-limit lights, out on the highway, but you had to go for a drive or their billet mom was gonna sell them for new furniture. He was not yet eighteen and when Shane had stepped on the ice that first day of camp, even before he recognized his little cowboy buddy, he had been smacked ass over teakettle by that stupid laugh and perfect dimples and when he watched Shane toss Craig Bonner on his ass like he was a sack of sugar it went right to his dick, because Tyson has always had a thing for those ranch-hand rugged strength sorts, from the Brawny paper towel man to John Wayne. Well, maybe not John Wayne. But the Brawny man had that sweet mustache going. And then there was Shane, guileless and build like a brick shithouse.

So they went for a drive. They went bowling. Neither of them was any good at bowling, but Shane went at it like a cat in a fish factory, and they whooped it up in the mostly-empty alley, and Tyson mostly did his best to distract him when the music came on - Boys II Men, and New Kids - and the blacklights made the carpeting on the wall glow. 

Tyson doesn't think he went out with the intention of defiling Shane. He doesn't think Shane went with any intention at all, except maybe to kick Tyson's ass at bowling. 

But it was late, and they stopped at a rest area because they just didn't want to go home yet, and there was a vending machine and they got two cans of pop and sat in the car and talked because they never got to be alone, not really, in juniors you weren't ever alone, always five or six other boys breathing and belching and farting and pissing and jacking off in your general vicinity. 

You learn to live with things. 

But the quiet was soft and unwound slow like a blanket, like flannel sheets when the sunrise canters over Jack Frost's window paintings. 

Tyson had known for a while how bad he wanted Shane. He was more sure, he thinks, than Shane was, what the wanting meant. Shane knew about farm things and breeding horses. Tyson had known for a while that men were his thing as much as girls were. Shane - Shane sat back in the bucket seat of Tyson's Pontiac and his neck seemed to strain out, the way it did when he was hurting somehow and didn't want anybody to know it.

Tyson whispered into the steering wheel (into the fogging window) "You know, Doaner, I really like you a whole lot. We're pals, right?"

"Yeah."

"I just mean, I like you, well, like _really like_ you."

There was a long pause and that hup of breath, the flutter of eyelashes - here and there in the glistening glitter dark. You could hear the cars a long way off on the highway. A million thousand galaxy miles away.

Shane looked him dead in the eye, in the parking lot of the rest area off Highway 5, and said: "So you wanna _do it?_ "

Tyson hit his head on the steering wheel but the bleat of the horn didn't clear much up. "Uh."

" 'Cause I want to do it." Firmly, with a confidence that didn't show at all in his beautiful ungodly stupid innocent eyes. 

"Oh."

They did what they could, in a blue Pontiac in a parking lot in a rest area off Highway 5, far from any home they knew. Tyson felt scrupulously shy. Felt defensive. As if Shane would judge him, but Shane has always serenely left judgements up to God, with God occasionally working through his elbows if need be. Shane is perfect. Shane's body is perfect. Up close and personal. Pink and warm. The windows fog. Shirts get rucked and belts get loose and jeans get shucked open. They did what they could, of each other, until they let up panting and staring and Shane's hand slid over his, and just held there.

In the living room a bazillion years away, a desert dawn is streaking in.

You like it? Shane had said many times - murmured or whispered or giggled or rasped in breathless hormone-blind enthusiasm.

Somewhere special, Shane had said, all pink. Just like he was in the blue Pontiac, pink and warm. Redder in places. 

His eyes itch from staring at the stucco ceiling in the darkness. 

He texts again:

_you're not an idiot._

_i'm still gonna get you back so bad doaner_

_i love you._


End file.
